Prick
by XxHomunculixX
Summary: Chapter one. Roots drawn out from Changeling the Lost, however it is a little more...original.


Prick.

Chapter 1

From the day you are born until the day you die you learn a new thing with each passing moment. Like leaves freshly fallen, your memories are covered but are always left deep down for you to dig through and find with less than a blink of the eye to spare to recover them. You never truly forget. It simply becomes more difficult to remember. When a memory you would rather forget happens by you find it more of a challenge to truly suppress it. The leaves always seem to fall in a circle around it. But those are those who drive them selves to burry it. Or even…destroy them all. Sometimes knowledge is dangerous. Or perhaps it is the people within them we leave behind with a piece of ourselves within their mind.

The decades of life were an ever reminder of the love and hatred glowing through the works no matter where your eyes averted in attempt to shun the rush of over coming emotion. The red velvet curtains had long been closed but the standing ovation went on. A smile was on every face, glancing at their company in nods of approval. Well…not everyone. It was hard to spot, but someone did indeed seem a bit out of place yet somehow such a part of it in the fifth row of seats, center front. A gaunt figure, pale and inclining forward to stand as a small hand swept platinum locks from the person's chin to the shoulders. One would be inclined to believe it to be a neo-punk female with a taste for women. But that was only half right. It was a male. Small, never uttering or writing down his true height with an underfed physique and drag queen agenda. Nails, polished pink, poked out from fingerless gloves and a thick layer of eye shadow and porcelain concealed were left caked on his face.

Covering the mop of shoulder length blonde hair, his frail arms lifted a black hood which hid the majority of it and made it difficult to see his ever-targeting eyes at the angle most stood above him. Unlike those leaving, he stood still. His thin lips, traced in black lipstick, stretched apart and curled at the end from the tickle of eating up the positive emotions left around him. The knot of joy twisting in his stomach was too much to bare. Each of his fingers parted before his left hand grasped his groin from outside of his pants. The black jeans looked like they had been applied with spray paint, offending but also piquing the interest of most who waddled by in the slow moving masses. The others in the facility were losing the essence of charisma as if it were vacuumed out of their hearts…But his smile only grow fuller and wider, his lips separating to expose his teeth. A chuckle faded into the noise.

There are those who stand and fight the hardship of life and those who prolong it, fleeing from the problem.

They see it as a way to blur out the difficulties into the world, hoping to forget it by simply turning a blind eye to the demon. As a child we all did it, hiding under out blankets when in fear in the dark. We felt security, assured that it really would hide us from the monster in the closet. Old habits die hard. But unlike the monster, true problems are undisputed. Some find themselves running forever. A new house, a different state or even a whole new world as it is perceived. We all find ourselves in the situation at one point in life. But there are those who never stop running until the day they die…

A roar of angry music filled the small room from the speakers of a stereo. A tall young man of slender build stood in front of a dirty mirror party strands of black hair, finishing blonde and hot pink extensions on his head before parting his bangs aside. Rounded hazel eyes blinked at the unsure reflection staring back at him. For some…this was life. A mechanical world of tools working within the machine where some gears were just bigger and shinier than the other and caused about more functions. The point? To progress. And to some the key to paradise is how much attention you get because it really does serve you above all else, however perverse the thought of it may be considered. For those who don't realize it, their soul has yet to become numb to emotion. You know the feeling. You can feel the hand rubbing on your skin but it doesn't feel right, as if there is a thick layer of sand choking your nerves.

The vain male's name given at birth is forgotten. It would be impossible to recall. He was snatched from his parents in the night shortly after his birth by a certain admirer of sorts. But ask him and he lived most of his life in the same house. None of his peers knew exactly who was paying the bills for his small house atop a club in the city. But everyone did know that he was famous amongst the underground for his attractive looks, experience as a singer, and his often sought out hand with cosmetics. His personality had little to do with it, other than the cunning actions that slowly advanced him to a level of respect. Photographers wanted him, boys wanted to be him, and girls wanted to have him. Everyone wants something but there are few with the unholy drive to see it through. Only a few in the city could say they compared to a man of power the fans and the fools knew as Itzal…


End file.
